"Yes," I said. "I cannot think of anything more splendid. I never heard anything to equal him, and Monsieur Maurel is equally fine, is he not?" "His singing is well enough," answered Verdi, "but his accent is deplorable." After this the conversation languished, and I feared it would die for want of fuel. I felt that I had been spinning my web in vain--that I might catch some other fly, but not Verdi, when suddenly he said: "You tell me that you sing often with the Queen. Which duets of mine do you sing?" he asked with seeming interest. I named several. "What voice has the Queen? Soprano or contralto?" "The Queen's voice is mezzo-soprano," I answered. "And yours?" he asked. "Mine is about the same, equally mezzo-soprano." This seemed to amuse him. "Do you think the Queen would like to have me write something [quite jocosely] equally mezzo-soprano?" "I am sure that the Queen," I answered, gushingly, "would be overjoyed." "_Bene_," said the great _maestro_ with a smile. "Then I win." "How enchanting!" I cried, crimson with enthusiasm. "But may I beg one thing?" "Beg! _Je vous en prie_." "_Fa dieze_ [F sharp] is a weak point in both our voices." "_Bene_," he said, waving his hand toward his piano. "I will write a duet for you, and only put one G minor in it." "G minor!" I exclaimed. "Why, that is--" He interrupted, "Have you ever noticed that G minor is much easier to sing than P sharp?" He did not wait for my assurance that I did not notice any difference, but said, suddenly, "When do you go to Monza?" "We are waiting to hear. Perhaps to-morrow." "Ah," he said, thoughtfully, as if turning over in his mind whether or not he could have the duet ready. MONZA, _October 19th_. Bonghi came yesterday. At the request of the Queen he read aloud my sketch of the Hamlet legend before the _promenade en voiture_. The Queen thanked me and said that she was going to keep the manuscript, but Bonghi cut my literary wings by pronouncing in his brusque way that, although it was interesting and he liked the contents, it was badly written. "_Chère madame_," he said, "you write very well, but you do not know the art of punctuating. You write as the water runs, as the arrow flies; therefore, in reading what you have written I have no time to breathe. I cannot separate the different ideas. A comma means a _point d'arrêt_, a moment of repose. Every period should be an instant in which to digest a thought." I felt crushed by this, but tried to defend myself by saying that I had only written it for one indulgent eye, and ended lamely by promising that the next time I wrote anything I would be more careful. "I will do as Mark Twain did--put the punctuations at the end, and one can take one's choice." We had some music again this evening. The Duke played some solos on his violoncello. He has a beautiful instrument. If Amati made cellos (perhaps he did), he must have made this one. At dinner I sat next to him.